Time Out of Time
by Magic Makers Inc
Summary: When a student unleashes an ancient evil, the Wizarding World must unite to prevent the end of the world as they know it. But what is the true nature of this evil? And why does Hermione Granger feel as though she knows him? What is the truth behind Chaos?
1. How It All Began

Hey, this is Merklin. My partner doesn't know I've posted this which…could make me a jerk, I dunno. Anyhow, here's the beginning of Time Out of Time. The title may change. This was originally supposed to be the sequel to another story that will probably be written eventually, but I'm in charge of most of the writing, and this storyline grabbed my attention with an iron fist. I cannot, and will not, promise regular updates. I write as my time allows and as inspiration strikes me. If I don't _feel_ like writing then there is no point whatsoever in my trying to write, it just won't work. I'll hate whatever I come up with.

Anyhow, this isn't so much the beginning as it is a kind of forward. I'll put a sneak peek of the actual beginning at the end, but for now think of this as a kind of disclaimer, to see if we can catch anyone's eye with this.

Now, the unpleasant necessities.

Harry Potter and all related characters, places, and items are the property of J.K. Rowling. (Speaking of which, Deathly Hallows was brilliant.) If you've seen it in any one of the seven Harry Potter books, or in any of the associated books, (Tales of Beedle the Bard, The Lexicon, etc.) It belongs to her, not us. Any original characters, as well as the plot, belong to us.

Now that that's done, here it is, without further ado.

--

It began, as so many tales of sorrow have began, with a kiss.

That is not to say that a kiss is an instrument of sorrow in and of itself, but a kiss can mean many things. It can be a casual gesture of friendship, or a demonstration of deep and abiding love, or any number of things in between. It can be cold and callous, or it can be gentle and passionate. It can be harsh, needy, empty, hungry, or tender. It is when the meaning of a kiss is misunderstood that the seeds of sorrow sprout, and tragedy ensues.

This is not a story about that kiss, it shall be a great deal of time before we even learn the truth of the kiss, for this story is about the _aftermath_ of the kiss, of consequences reaching from the far past. It is a story of hardship and of desperation, and of friendship and joy, of the never-ending struggle between good and evil.

This is the story of a young, but clever witch who must stand against the greatest sorcerer of all time; it is the story of the last and greatest of an ancient, near-forgotten people. It is a tale of broken hearts, of terrible wrath, full of violence and cruelty and murder and death and idealism corrupted.

This is the legend of Hermione Granger and Chaos.

And all of it began with a kiss.

--

And there you have it, the prelude. Now, since I'm inclined to keep my word, a sneak peek of the prologue/chapter one, whichever.

--

_The first time Neville heard The Voice, it was less of a voice and more of a feeling; a kind of half-trail of cold that crept up his spine the first time he set foot in Hogwarts Castle, as though something were staring straight through him and measuring what they found there, and then there was a tingle of excitement that was not his own. It was gone quickly, though, and he promptly forgot about it._

_The second time was during his first potions class. He had been utterly petrified of Professor Snape, and so he had been hastily attempting to follow the instructions, avoid the professor's gaze, and control his fear all at once. Being only eleven, and not terribly confident to begin with he was, of course, failing. His eyes on Snape, he reached unthinkingly for the porcupine quills and heard, quite distinctly, a faint whisper of 'No," accompanied by the sensation of someone shaking their head._

_Startled, he hesitated for a moment, then dismissed his concerns when he caught sight of Snape and grabbed the quills, dropping them into the boiling cauldron._

_The severe pain of the boils granted to him by his exploding cauldron convinced him that, perhaps, he should have listened to The Voice._

--

And that's all you get for now. That chapter is currently being written, and with any luck I should have it done soon. I can't promise anything, though. I have homework, work, and two tests coming up. I'll try though.


	2. The Voice

The Disclaimer is located at the beginning of the story

Merklin: I know I said it would be a while before I posted this, but I decided this was a good way to set the stage for further encounters and to really get the ball rowling. There may be a mini-chapter for years 2, 3, and 4 as well, I don't know. Definitely The Voice's influence through them, the significant parts anyway, will be noted, on up to fifth year, which is where this story REALLY begins. So, here it is, chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 1: The Voice

Most witches and wizards, lacking the knowledge of the full story, would agree that the whole sodding mess began with Neville Longbottom.

"Oh for sure," the older ones will say, "if it weren't fer that Bellatrix lestrange, young Longbottom might have been more…resistant." And they'll purse their lips and eye each other meaningfully, and if she is present Augusta longbottom will flush with embarrassment and hastily concoct and excuse to leave. This is partly to escape the embarrassment brought on by the thinly veiled barbs as her parenting skills, and partly because although she knows her grandson's actions brought about great sorrow and much pain, in her heart of hearts she cannot bring herself to regret them.

Other, more intellectual magic-users (mostly Unspeakables, and mostly Ravenclaws at that) point the finger of blame at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Or, more specifically, at the multitude of wards and charms built into the very foundations of the castle. "Although," they will admit, "young Longbottom certainly escalated things."

But if you were to ask Neville himself what started it, he would smile slightly, squeeze the supporting hand resting on his shoulder, and tell you quite frankly that it started with The Voice.

And so, leaving aside for now(and for the foreseeable future) the matter of the kiss, it is with The Voice that we shall begin our tale.

--

The first time Neville heard The Voice, it was less of a voice and more of a feeling; a kind of half-trail of cold that crept up his spine the first time he set foot in Hogwarts Castle, as though something were staring straight through him and measuring what they found there, and then there was a tingle of excitement that was not his own. It was gone quickly, though, and he promptly forgot about it.

The second time was during his first potions class. He had been utterly petrified of Professor Snape, and so he had been hastily attempting to follow the instructions, avoid the professor's gaze, and control his fear all at once. Being only eleven, and not terribly confident to begin with he was, of course, failing. His eyes on Snape, he reached unthinkingly for the porcupine quills and heard, quite distinctly, a faint whisper of _'No.'_ accompanied by the sensation of someone shaking their head.

Startled, he hesitated for a moment, then dismissed his concerns when he caught sight of Snape and grabbed the quills, dropping them into the boiling cauldron.

The severe pain of the boils granted to him by his exploding cauldron convinced him that, perhaps, he should have listened to The Voice.

He did not actually hear The Voice again for many months. Rather, he would get a vague sensation of head-nodding or shaking, which prevented him from making mistakes. Not often, but just enough so that he made far fewer blunders than he otherwise would have. And then there was the disaster that was his first flying lesson. Had he been allowed to simply fall, he would have landed on his head, and quite probably broken his neck. However, he had the distinct feeling of hands clasping his arms, twisting him so that he landed merely on his wrist.

That incident made him particularly grateful to The Voice.

He did not, in spite of it saving his life, quite trust The Voice, not yet, and would not for quite some time, months and years even. But its presence no longer frightened him, and he appreciated the assistance it gave him.

It was around the end of the Christmas Holidays, around the beginning of the new term, that he was awakened in the night by a sense of urgency, an urgency that belonged to The Voice.

_'Quickly, Neville.'_ It told him, its soundless sound much stronger than it had been the last time. _'There isn't much time.'_

Infected by the determination and urgency of The Voice, he found himself silently leaving his bed and exiting his dormitory, slipping through the common room and out the portrait hole with a grace that, in later years, he felt must have been given to him by The Voice.

He followed The Voice, obeying its whispered instructions as it guided him past Filch, peeves, and Mrs. Norris to an almost-empty classroom. Almost empty because he found himself staring at a large, rectangular object, covered by a thick white sheet.

_'Pull down the sheet, Neville.'_ The Voice commanded.

Still gripped by his invisible guardian's feeling of speediness and determination, he obeyed and gave the sheet a single long pull. The cloth slid silently aside, revealing a tall mirror in a wrought gold frame.

_'Look into the mirror, Neville.'_ The Voice told him gently. _'It's all right, there's nothing to be afraid of.'_

He did as The Voice asked, and did not bother to stifle his gasp.

His mother and father stood behind him, their hands on his shoulders. They were smiling lovingly down at him, their eyes full of life and light rather than the empty, blank things he routinely saw in St. Mungo's. These were the parents that he had always longed for; this was what the Lestranges had stolen from him.

He pressed his small hand against the glass, as though he could reach through the cold surface to touch his mother and father. He could have stood there forever, could have looked at them forever, but the ghostly sensation of a hand on his shoulder and the whispered sound of The Voice penetrated his reverie.

_'It's only an illusion, Neville.'_ The Voice told him gently. There was a feeling of pointing, and he found his gaze drawn to the inscription on the mirror's arch. _'Look, Neville, do you see? 'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi,' I show not your face but your heart's desire.'_

"Then why?" Neville asked, aware of the tears rolling silently down his face, "Why did you bring me here?"

_'I thought it was wrong that you should never see your parents when their eyes are full of love for you.'_ The Voice told him._ 'No amount of pictures taken before your birth can give you that feeling. You deserved it. It is far better to feel momentary pain from an illusion of what could have been, than to forever ache at the knowledge of what cannot be.'_

There seemed to be something wrong with that explanation somehow. Before he could put his finger on it, though, The Voice intruded on his thought.

_'Come, Neville, you must get back to the tower, others are coming.'_ Before Neville's eyes the sheet lifted itself from the floor and covered the mirror once again. He did not linger, knowing that looking into the mirror again would only bring pain. The Voice guided him back to the tower, bypassing Dumbledore himself in addition to the ill-tempered caretaker, and once back in his bed Neville dreamed of his parents with a clarity he had never possessed before, his earlier misgivings about the adventure forgotten.

--

Deep beneath Hogwarts, in a place that was half dream and half shadow, the presence that was the physical form of The Voice stretched tiredly and gave a contented sigh. Guiding the boy to the mirror had cost it much in terms of its carefully stored energy, but it had been well worth the effort; now it knew for sure what before it could only have guessed at: the correct bait to bend the child to its will. It really was so obliging of the Headmaster to have left that mirror out. His test of one student's character had given The Voice the final piece of the puzzle.

It had waited long for a child like Neville to step into the castle, longer still for the walls that kept it trapped here to weaken sufficiently for it to see into and affect the world above. Now millennia of patience were about to pay off. It would sleep for now, reach only the barest of threads into Neville's mind to nurture and maintain the boy's growing trust. Soon, very soon, it would at last be free.

It had waited this long, after all. A few more years were no great hardship.

The Voice gave a long, deep chuckle as the people beyond its prison slept and dreamed, blissfully unaware of the horror that was steadily climbing closer towards their world.

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So, what did you think? Please review!


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